To Find a Mockingjay (SYOT)
by abcdefghijklmnopqrstvwxyz
Summary: President Coriolanus Snow's face slightly drops in disappointment. "No flying pigs?"/ "I rather doubt it, sir."/ "Fire breathing octopi?"/ "Not necessarily."/ He sighs. "You Gamemakers need to take some creativity lessons." (SYOT OPEN)
1. 00) Pilot

**Title: To Find a Mockingjay (SYOT)**

**Subtitle: Rainbows, Unicorns, Puppies, Cotton Candy, and the 75th Hunger Games (SYOT)**

**Description: The rebels need a victor—a Mockingjay, to lead them all—**_**now**_**.**

**Summary: President Coriolanus Snow's face slightly drops in disappointment. "No flying pigs?"/ "I rather doubt it, sir."/ "Fire breathing octopi?"/ "Not necessarily."/ He sighs. "You Gamemakers need to take some creativity lessons." (SYOT OPEN)**

**Rating: T for Terrific, Terrible, Terrified Tributes**

**Main Characters/Pairings: SYOT OPEN (ugh I'm getting tired of this word already.)**

**Genre: Adventure, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship (?), Angst (?), Comedy (?)**

* * *

**Disclaimer: Do I look like Suzanne Collins to you?**

* * *

**A/N: This is an SYOT (cue the groans and eye rolls). Forms of submission can be found in my profile.**

**Huge thanks to my wonderful beta: ****Amber1015**

* * *

"And I thought that Everdeen might've actually had a chance," she said, tossing a can of cheap beer at the drunken mentor from District 12.

Of course, Haymitch, being too drunk for fast reflexes, got hit on the head with the can, making a dull, swishing, _thunk_!

Johanna winced at the sound. "My bad."

"Yeah, yeah, at least the boy survived…whatever—doesn't matter," Haymitch slurred, not even lifting a hand to examine the injury. He reached over the table for the beer that had rolled away after hitting his head. He picked it open with a satisfying _click_ and began gulping down the substance, not bothering to stop for breath.

"Where's the boy anyway?" Cecelia interceded in with her soft, motherly voice in an attempt of a conversation.

Haymitch kept chugging down the beer, and the victors surrounding the table observed, not interrupting, as he emptied the can.

"He's still healing. Got an operation a few days ago. Left leg."

"Ah," said Cecelia, and decided to say no more with Chaff at the table.

Finnick reached over to Johanna and plucked the bottle from her hands, earning an infuriated _"hey!"_. He took a gulp, and smiling charmingly, he said, "I guess we'll have to find another Mockingjay, then."

Silence loomed over the table as Finnick finally stated the inevitable.

Beetee decided to speak up. "Well, we always have Johanna."

It was an old joke, kept going by the victors since the 71st Hunger Games. Still, that fact didn't stop Johanna from crying out an annoyed _"What?"_ at the old inventor. A few of the victors chuckled lightly.

"Naw," Finnick grinned good naturally, putting an arm around Johanna's chair as she scoffed at him. "Wouldn't have worked with Jo here as the Mockingjay. We're the only ones who like her, much less can tolerate her."

"Finally, someone who's on my side," Johanna muttered sarcastically, rolling her brown eyes to the heavens.

"But, seriously," Cashmere lowly said. "We're running out of time. We need a Mockingjay…_now_." Pausing, she thought for a moment, before adding, "I'm guessing Peeta Mellark's not exactly the Mockingjay type, huh?"

"Boy will snap like a twig," Beetee told her dismissively.

"At least people like him," Finnick stated a little too innocently and earned Johanna's sharp elbow in his ribs.

"Guess we'll have to wait for another year then," she said, watching Finnick with a satisfied smirk as he doubled over in pain. "How's 13 holding up?"

"Well, that's the problem. They don't have much time. They'll be ready soon—very soon—and by then, we _need_ to have a Mockingjay. Next year will be perfect, but if our Mockingjay doesn't show up by then, we're done," Beetee informed them solemnly, and suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The light, joking mood was gone; the victors all wore grim, severe expressions. Even Haymitch set his can down on the table, trying to wrap his drunken mind around the situation.

"Yeah, but this year's the Quell," Gloss's voice cut through the silence. When Cecelia raised an inquiring eyebrow, he explained, "That's a plus for us. Plutarch can bend and change the rules of the game without raising too much suspicion. Also, he can set the arena so that only the person with the traits we want in the Mockingjay can survive."

"But what if there's no one with the qualities we want in the Mockingjay?" Chaff gruffly asked, only feebly trying to mask his concern.

"There must be a _few_ in the country," Beetee said grimly, pushing his glasses far up his nose. His fingers tapped the table rapidly. "Plutarch can always make up a decent lie to change the way the reapings go, so those _few_ will get reaped."

Finnick frowned. "Well, that sounds like rather the risky bet."

Chaff nodded. "I'm guessing that we'll have to take the chance?"

Haymitch surprised everyone by nodding grimly, his features sober. "We'll have to make sure the worthiest, most rebellious of Panem get reaped and _win_."

~.~.~

"—the worthiest, most rebellious of Panem get reaped—and _win_."

President Coriolanus Snow's face drops slightly in disappointment.

"Ah, I suppose that's rather a good idea, Heavensbee, but I was thinking more along the lines of something more—ah—_creative_."

Plutarch's lips upturn the slightest bit. "What do you mean, exactly, sir?"

Snow's eyes twinkle in excitement. "Well, for example, a boy with the initials A. A. gets reaped for District One. A girl with the initials B. B. shares the same fate, and so on."

Plutarch shakes his head ever so slightly. "I don't think that would work, sir."

Ignoring the protest coming out of the old man's mouth, the Head Gamemaker stubbornly continues, "There are 12 Districts and 26 letters. Doesn't divide perfectly. And as you know, the Quarter Quell's all about _perfection_. Also, I doubt that there'll be someone with the initials X. X. anyway."

Snow sighs. He'd thought that his idea had been a pretty good one.

"Oh!" he cries out suddenly when another wonderful idea hits him. "How about we reap the same number of tributes as the number of the District they represent?"

Plutarch is shaking his head even before Snow finishes his statement, which makes the President scowl in displeasure.

"That's a pretty great idea, sir, however, it won't be great for you politically. We want to stay on good terms with One, and mostly, Two. However, they might think it's a disadvantage for them if only one or two tributes are reaped from them and twelve from the other districts. And trust me, you don't want any more districts turning against the Capitol at this point."

"At this rate, I suppose that you're going to say no to snow made out of blood?"

"Your last name is Snow, sir, you don't want the Capitol to relate you to blood in any way. Plus, you don't want anything unoriginal for this Quell."

"No flying pigs, then?" Snow asks hopefully.

"I rather doubt it, sir," Plutarch answers with a small smile.

"Fire breathing octopi?"

"Not necessarily."

Snow sighs. "You Gamemakers need to take some creativity lessons."

"If that pleases you, sir, then I will arrange it."

"Oh well…whatever," Snow mutters grudgingly in defeat. He sighs. "Alright then, what was your _very original_ idea? The worthiest or something? Yeah, whatever."

"Sir, let me explain why this is a brilliant idea to you before you disagree. This idea will help you with almost all of your problems."

The president's eyebrows shoot up in intrigue. Will the game somehow help him with his hair problems? He was losing a lot of hair lately.

"The rebellion, sir," Snow's face darkens at the statement, from both the thought of the uprising districts and the fact that Plutarch did not carry any solution to his hair problem.

"What about it, Heavensbee?" he asks reluctantly.

"Well, sir, we—and possibly the majority of the districts—know that there has been a…_shift_…in the atmosphere. Little talks of defiance, not pledging for the flag of Panem—little things, only little things, however, put together, _deadly_."

Snow curls his lips. He, of course, knows this and isn't very grateful that Plutarch is reviewing it. However, he trusts his Head Gamemaker enough not to interrupt; Plutarch Heavensbee isn't one of those fools who thought that they were clever.

"Some districts are as good as having declared rebellion, like—as you already know—Districts One, Three, Four, Seven, Eight, and Eleven. And their victors too are speaking up against the Capitol. Although there hasn't been a direct uprising yet, it's only a matter of time." Plutarch pauses to clear his throat.

"Your point, Heavensbee?" Snow interrupts, slightly miffed at Plutarch's calm attitude when speaking of such a treacherous subject.

Plutarch patiently continues in the same tone, as if he is just retelling a completely irrelevant fact. "My point is, the most talented, worthiest of Panem are usually the first to join the rebellion when it happens." Snow doesn't like it at all when Plutarch said _when_ and not _if_. "So why not finish them off first? Before they're any trouble? Why not reap them and put them in the arena? And why not save the worthiest of them all and use them as our very own puppet?

"Plus, what if we punish the rebellious districts first? When we put them in the arena, why not let them fall in traps while the districts that are loyal to the Capitol stay safe from the arena's dangers? Of course, we can do nothing about the interactions between the tributes, but the Capitol-sided-arena will both warn the districts and punish them."

Snow's puffy lips slowly curl into a smile as the thought is digested.

He nods. "Very nice, _very nice_. Heavensbee, I owe you one."

Plutarch smiles back. "I'll immediately go and change the envelope, sir," and he dismisses himself.

~.~.~

"It was never tribute against tribute, district against district. It had always been_ us _against _them_, the Capitol," Johanna said, reaching over to the middle of the table where a pile of sugar cubes sat in a pyramid.

"To hell with them," Finnick said curtly, raising his glass of vodka as if toasting.

As if they had rehearsed this, the other seven victors sitting around the table also raised their glass.

"Whoever the Mockingjay becomes," Cecelia said solemnly, "I desperately hope that the odds will be forever in their favor. And ours too."

"And may the odds ever be in favor of the people's liberty and rights," Beetee added flatly.

The eight leaders of the rebellion faced each other with tight expressions, and after some unspoken communication was held between them, they nod; a spontaneous, curt little thing, barely visible, but carrying so much more meaning than words could ever carry.

* * *

**A/N: So, this was the first chapter. Let me know what you guys think of it.**

**The form of the submission will also be on my profile, but please read the notes and rules below. (Nothing big and complicated, just the basics.) Feel free to PM me if you have any questions, or if you're simply bored and want to communicate with someone.**

**~.~.~**

**Rule 1| Half-assed forms are not welcome. The form doesn't need to be an entire thesis or something, but seriously, elaboration, people. You can't just give me a name and a few personalities and hope for me to work out the rest of the form. (Twenty-four people exceed my limits. NO BULLET LISTS. End of the story.)**

**Rule 2| Preferably submit an original and unique character. It doesn't matter if they're normal – yes cliché tributes are also welcome, but think about submitting someone **_**different**_** if you have some time left. However, **_**no Mary Sues will be accepted**_**.**

**Rule 3| You can submit up to three tributes. I don't know what's up with that number, but apparently, a lot of SYOT writers think that three is a great number limit for submitting tributes. It won't be first come first serve, though I will accept most of the tributes.**

**Rule 4| I have the right to change anything about your tributes, but being the lazy, go-with-the-flow person I am, I doubt I'll modify anything. But just in case your tribute overlaps with another submission, I might PM you so we can work something out.**

**~.~.~**

**Note 1| This SYOT can end in four or more different ways. I really don't want to spoil it for you, but based on the tribute who wins, the rebels might not be able to get a Mockingjay and start a rebellion. That will also be an interesting ending… What I'm trying to say is that the story plot doesn't really have anything to do with who gets to win. So don't sweat over making your character a perfect figure for the Mockingjay, or worse, Katniss Everdeen. I **_**don't**_** need one of those.**

**Note 2| I recommend writing out the form in a separate document and copying it. I've submitted some SYOTs before, and it's really annoying if you've filled out all the long forms and then it expires (cue the hair-ripping). If you wish to send in the form by PM instead, just contact me, and I'll send you the form.**

**Note 3| In this story, the districts are divided into two categories; the Capitol Side and the Rebel Side. The ****Capitol Sides are the Districts 2, 5, 6, 9, 10, and 12****, and the ****Rebel Sides are the Districts 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 11.****The Capitol Side districts have the arena advantage—their tributes won't necessarily die directly because of the arena.**** However, ****only the Rebel Side districts can earn sponsors.**** But don't sweat over this, every 5 days in the story, a random Capitol district (except for District 2) will turn into a Rebel district, applying the rule above. So I recommend you to ****choose the district you want****, not the district you think will be the best for survival.**

**Note 4| The tributes must excel in the industry of their districts. It doesn't matter how old, how smart, and what kind of personality they have—they must be way above average in their district's industry. Again, **_**that does not **_**mean that your tribute has to be smart and old. Also, your tribute has to have one other skill—it seriously doesn't matter what it is, from singing to making perfect apple pies (I doubt it) to building a model of the Eiffel Tower with any kind of material. It can be anything, (except for superpowers of course) but it is required.**

**Note 5| I've already got the whole arena planned out, so I won't be making up traps and playing favorites as the story goes on. Therefore, the tribute's skills and personalities that will help them in the arena, not vice versa (*Hint: The tributes' names are going to play an essential part in the arena).**

**Note 6| The District 7 female tribute cannot choose her chariot outfit. I know, it sounds incredibly odd, but I already got something planned out. Sorry (not really) for your inconvenience.**

**Note 7| Please don't abandon the story after submitting a tribute. The creator of the tribute may have to make choices in the story once in a while.**

**~.~.~**

**I'll write these notes and rules on my profile too. PMs, comments, questions, and criticism are more than welcome. I'd be really grateful if you decide to submit a tribute.**


	2. 01) Papers

**Chapter Title: 01. Papers**

**Chapter Subtitle: 01. The Victors Do Paperwork While the President Schemes**

**Description: Cashmere (she's sure she's not the only one) just hates papers—no offense, District 7.**

**Summary: "Good, very good. Just let me ask you one thing. Will this plan anyhow affect the victors psychologically?"/ "FUUUUUUUCCCCCK!"**

**Rating: T for The Tremendously pissed victors**

**Main Characters/Pairings: Coriolanus S., Plutarch H., Cinna X., The (enormously pissed) Victors**

**Genre: Adventure (of the envelope), Horror (of the paperwork), Hurt/Comfort (every time when a victor screams in frustration), Angst (when a victor skipped a paper and has to find it in the mess—oh, the angst!), Comedy (the whole situation to Snow)**

* * *

**Disclaimer: If I owned The Hunger Games, Finnick would've been handing out sugar cubes every Saturday morning.**

* * *

**Thank you for being such a wonderful beta, Amber1015****!**

* * *

"So, Plutarch, my friend, what have you prepared for our very special tributes this year? I mean, this is the year of the third _Quarter Quell_." Caesar Flickerman comically wiggles his eyebrows up and down a few times, then grins into the camera. The crowd cheers and hoots in anticipation.

After all the commotion has died down, Plutarch, with a small smile on his lips, says in a rather calm voice, "I'm not allowed to spoil anything, but just so you know, this year's game is going to be a series of firsts and lasts."

Of course, Caesar pouts at the vague answer. He whirls toward the audience in his turnable chair, and exclaims, his arms extended to his sides, "Come on, Plutarch, we want details!"

Another agreeing roar from the audience.

"Well," Plutarch says in the same placid tone, "I guess I can tell you that this year, the tributes aren't going to be mixed up."

There is silence, for everyone is racking their brains to figure out what the hell Plutarch could possibly mean. Caesar, eyes bulging out of their sockets, looks like he's one second away from falling out of his chair. He frowns and leans towards his guest, waiting for the audience to catch on before he begins.

"Can you perhaps, _elaborate_? I'm pretty sure my puny brain isn't comprehending a word you said," he whispers to the Head Gamemaker as if telling a secret, and the whole audience hushes to catch Caesar's words.

"Ah, that was kind of my point—" Plutarch jokes, and there is some laughter from the audience, "—but since you ask so nicely, well then. Originally, twenty-four tributes are supposed to randomly stand in a circle around the Cornucopia when the game starts. However, this year, the tributes won't be mixed up—they will be placed in _order_ around the Cornucopia, from District One to District Twelve; organized, in a perfect circle."

"Ah…" Caesar sighs dramatically as the audience begins to chatter excitedly. Never had the games performed any sort of organization. It was always random horrors for random tributes. Now, things seem to be looking a little bit different.

"Anything else? Besides what was written on the envelope this morning?" Caesar asks with a mischievous grin on his face. The audience falls silent, all catching their breaths to see if Plutarch will drop any more exciting new hints for them.

"Well, that," Plutarch says, and suddenly starts to cough into his hands, causing Caesar to groan good-naturedly. After the little fit, Plutarch smiles at the cameras, his eyes twinkling. "I _have_ to say, that there will actually be _rules_ in this particular Quarter Quell."

~.~.~

"Now I wonder," Cinna slowly says in a calm tone, "How that's going to turn out for us."

Haymitch grimly stares at the television screen, where Plutarch is taking a bow with Caesar calling out aside him, "_Plutarch Heavensbee_!" The audience goes wild.

"Rules," Cinna says when Haymitch doesn't reply. "Rules," he repeats quietly, putting his forefingers on his lips, leaning forward, and getting lost in thought.

"Yeah, yeah, _rules_," Haymitch says abruptly, shooting up from his armchair across from the man who was now observing him silently. "Rubbish. Think those'll keep you safe, huh? They're just another word for loopholes and fake heaven. To hell with them. I need a fucking beer."

As soon as he says that, a beer rises out of the middle of the table.

Cinna watches Haymitch calmly as he empties the whole bottle in less than six seconds.

"But somehow, Plutarch thinks that it's a one-way ticket to our Mockingjay," Haymitch splutters angrily, and Cinna's face darkens a bit as his eyes trail the bottle in Haymitch's hand as he slams it onto the table.

"We need a new name for our rebel leader," he mutters quietly, but sadness and rage can be heard just behind his calm façade. "The _Mockingjay_ is dead," he says even more quietly, and Haymitch can see stylist's fury at the Capitol shimmering just beneath the surface.

Haymitch's eyes soften a bit, and he lets out a deep sigh. "You were quite fond of her, right?"

"That's an understatement," Cinna answers, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

Haymitch pauses for a moment as he observes the pained man. His first tribute, his first hope, his first bet, and his first death. Katniss Everdeen had been a lot of Cinna's firsts, and the Capitol had killed her without mercy.

"I was too," Haymitch manages to say, his voice catching a little bit on the end, and when Cinna opens his eyes in surprise, he's already gone.

~.~.~

The envelope.

It was a small thing, a soft yellow shimmering around it like a halo.

Really, a small thing, carefully designed to fit perfectly in the pearly white box that contained thirty-eight of those things.

It was the thing the entire country had its focus on.

The envelope sat elegantly in the box a Capitol child brought in. He was about eight and was wearing a white dress suit and with a matching white rose pinned on it. With a cheeky smile, he walked toward the center of the stage, where a much, much older man stood, also dressed in blinding white.

The envelope sat still while the old man thanked the boy who held up the box for him.

The envelope was picked up and opened in the old man's careful, gloved hands.

Then it was read out loud, and there was a chorus of gasps and squeals in the audience.

_"In this special year of the Quarter Quell, for the worthiest of the Capitolians who had died during the rebellion, only the worthiest of the citizens of Panem will be reaped. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."_

~.~.~

Snow frowned at the enormous amount of paperwork in front of him. The papers filled at least a quarter of the enormous ballroom, floor to ceiling. "I always knew that there will be a price for me to pay if the rebellion happens," Plutarch coughed then, which suspiciously sounded like a _"when."_ Snow promptly ignored him, and continued, "But this is too much."

Plutarch smiled to himself. "Yes, it is, sir."

A look of annoyance flashed across Snow's face. "Then why—"

"Sir," Plutarch cut in, and Snow scowled; he hated when someone interrupted him, but because of his esteem for his favored advisor, he bit his tongue. "Have you ever questioned why I've asked you to call all the victors to the victory party at your mansion two days ago? Perhaps why Haymitch Abernathy has plans to head to the District 12 stylist's house a few hours later? Or why Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason were throwing sugar cubes at each other this morning, rather than being in their respective districts?"

"Yes, I thought that that was because you didn't want the victors to have any connection with their districts, in fear of uprisings." Snow said, pondering. He took a gulp of water in the elegant crystal goblet beside him as he suddenly felt thirsty.

Plutarch nodded. "Yes, that's also true, but the main reason is to make them work for us here."

Snow knitted his brows. He knew that he would've been happy to hear that when just four years ago, but after Johanna Mason? Well, he could already hear her sarcastic voice in his head, spitting out, "_WORK FOR YOU? WORK FOR _YOU_? Well, hell yeah, I'd be glad to. YOU CAN KISS MY_—"

"I know what you're thinking, sir, but this 'work,' isn't _that_ drastic. I'm sure even the most, ah—_tricky_—victors would be pushed into doing it." Plutarch said, and Snow couldn't help but marvel at his smile. How could he be smiling after saying something a parallel to _Katniss Everdeen is alive and well, sir?_

"How...?" Snow inquires, and as if he'd entirely planned out the whole conversation beforehand, Plutarch nods lightly and begins to explain.

"Do you know, sir, that the victors constantly have nightmares, not only because of their time in the arena but also because of the children they'd mentored that died in the arena?"

Snow frowned at the sudden question. However, he answered with a curt, "Yes, go on."

"Sir, the victors, as well as mentors, feel guilty of the death of their tributes, even though they know that it's what we wanted them to feel. When a district has a victor, the mentor responsible for the tribute has a brief mirage of relief that they weren't responsible for his/her death also." Plutarch glanced at Snow to see if he was following his explanation. Snow's face was scrunched up, but he waved his hand for the plump man to continue.

"Well, then think about this, sir. If the mentors are to choose their tributes, would they be abhorred? They won't be completely delighted, of course, but think about this; if they were able to escape mentoring the weakest, the most hopeless of the district, therefore having a better chance to make a victor out of their tribute and dodging their guilt, would they really say no?" When Snow didn't answer to his rhetorical question, Plutarch continued, "So what I'm suggesting is, put the victors in one huge room—"

"—when you say victors, does Mellark count?"

Plutarch paused a bit at the interruption. Then he continued as serenely as ever. "Yes, sir. His attendance should be mandatory. It's a plus for you, for you can send out the message; _Look, the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. He hasn't even finished his victory tour, and he's already working for the Capitol_._"_

Snow nodded sagely. "Good."

"So, again, what I'm saying is that we put all the victors in one huge room and tell them to sort through those papers—which has a bit of information on each child of reaping age in all 12 districts. Assign a table for the victors of each district and give them the files of their district's children. Tell them they can't go home until they've been through all the papers.

"They'll say yes because they'd never pass up a chance to let their tributes win. But they'll work efficiently because they hate us and will want to get this done fast—but correctly—and go home. And since the districts that have a sizeable reaping population have many victors, and the districts that have a small reaping population have hardly any victors so each district's sorting would end in a similar time. The reaping's in late July this year, sir. Let us keep them in the Capitol _until then_—or at least until they finished judging which children are to be reaped and which shouldn't be.

"But here's the trap. We tell them that they're free to work whenever they want, as long as it's in the required building. We tell them that they're free to roam the Capitol streets, do whatever they desire unless it's contacting their or other's districts. Tell them that they can do whatever they want if they just finish the paperwork before July. And if they want to, they're free to spend the rest of their time in the Capitol until the Games season starts. We give them a false sense of freedom, so they'd become lax, unguarded, _undetermined_. And you know what _that_ can mean.

"Of course, the victors of the rebellious districts would still go home right after their job is done, but the other victors would quite like short-lived sensation. We may be able to keep the rebels in persuading other districts to join them and postpone the rebellion for a little while more."

Snow sighed and leaned back in his thron—_chair_. He went through all the things Plutarch just said to him in his mind. It was a great idea. A fantastic one as usual, and he didn't see any loopholes or faults in it.

"I guess you're going to suggest we plant secret cameras and recording devices in the room, also?"

Plutarch frowned at Snow's abrupt question, and the president was taken aback a bit. Was Plutarch actually going to say no to spying on the enemy?

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think that's a good idea in this circumstance. See, the thing is, if we plant the cameras, it'll be easier for the rebels to plant theirs as well. And as you know, some rebel districts may hold important information, but the districts _loyal to the Capitol_ hold important information as well. And even though we need rebel information, we can't afford to leak any of _ours_. Even if you say that we're the only ones who planted the cameras, the recorded audios might also leak. So, what I'm proposing is to clean the building – completely. Make sure there aren't any cameras or recording devices hidden."

Snow contemplated this for a moment.

Then, smiling as wide and cruelly as his puffy lips could handle, he said, "Good, very good. Just let me ask you one thing. Will this plan anyhow affect the victors psychologically?"

~.~.~

Cashmere hates the color black. And white.

She feels dizzy from having sorted all these fucking _miserable_ papers, and she's feeling cranky and irritable.

"So, what you're saying is, Plutarch convinced Snow that we're doing his dirty work for him, rather than planning a rebellion?" Gloss quickly shoots Cashmere a look as the disbelief in her voice threatened to carry over to the large table of District Two next to them.

"Yes, that's what Haymitch said," Sphinx replied—a man in his thirties and a District One victor of the 58th Hunger Games. "Now hush, and read the next form."

All the victors of the 74 Hunger Games, minus the deceased, insane, and sick, were huddled around, district by district, in the giant ballroom of the presidential mansion. Peeta Mellark's victory tour had ended a month ago, and oddly, no victors, including him, were to go home back to their districts after the ceremony at the Capitol. Mellark's home district celebration was never even held.

Turns out that they were to read the two-page forms of all of the children eligible for reaping in their entire district. The whole lot had been reading tedious paperwork all day long for a month. Talk about being the Capitol's true puppets.

Cashmere sighs and skims over the page again. She finds herself, two minutes later, reading the same sentence over and over again. She shakes her head to snap out of whatever the trance she was in and concentrate. _This is important_. She tells herself. _This is important._

The victors were required to sit together by district and to actually read through the whole forms and decide if the child was "worthy" of getting reaped. That meant that the child had to excel in their district's industry, and have an additional "worthy" skill. If they were "worthy" enough, the victors were to put them on the middle of the table where a small machine sat (fuck those, why can't _they_ read through the forms? Pointless machines) and calculated how many children were approved. If they weren't "worthy" enough, (and _wow_, how Cashmere thought them to be lucky) the form was to be thrown away on the floor. Yes, like literally. (At first, there were wastebaskets, but those were soon proven worthless since they started to overflow rather quickly.)

When the victors were done, each district was to have at least 10 kids per age "worthy" of reaping.

Cashmere, getting dizzy by all the white and black, blinked a few times. Haymitch had told them again and again that this was important; they were to choose children that were most fit to be the Mockingjay, so they have a better chance at getting one to become a victor. To Cashmere, seeing all the forms around her, it finally began to register in her mind that the odds were _really_ against them, to begin with.

She felt weird and slightly like a hypocrite for choosing the children who would go inside the horrible arena she had to face, but feeling that was likely a part of Snow's plan, she tried to swallow it down.

She wanted to go outside, bathe in the bright city lights, rest in her comfortable living room in the victor's village back home, drink beer with Johanna, Finnick—even Haymitch, but since nobody was complaining, she swallowed the feeling down. Of course, she _could_ do it, she could leave this place any time she wanted to, and go wherever she wanted to, as long as it's a place in the Capitol, but Haymitch's strict orders required her to stay put from dawn to dusk, sorting through papers as fast as she can. The only time she was to go out in the city was the "annual drink party" the leaders of the rebellion were planned to have every three days, which was more like a secret meeting for planning the rebellion.

Cashmere drops the paper she was reading—the boy had looked too skinny anyway—and stretches, yawning loudly. The ballroom is a little bit over half-full—if you don't count the papers. All the victors of Districts 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 11 were remaining at their posts. They look fatigued, for they had only been working without respite. Even the four victors of District 7 stopped complaining about how hard they worked to create these papers.

However, District 2 is a different matter. Three victors are languidly shuffling through the papers, sipping coffee and chattering with each other, while the other six were out in the Capitol, having fun doing who-knows-what. Don't get her wrong, Cashmere _hates_ the Capitol, but she couldn't help but think that she wants _out_ of this ballroom, even if it means that she has to roam through the overly-decorated streets.

_"FUUUUUUUCCCCCK!"_ comes a loud shout from the table of District Seven, and everybody whips their heads around to Johanna Mason (of course)—all secretly glad that there was some kind of distraction (entertainment) happening.

"Sorry," Johanna quickly mutters, looking embarrassed and annoyed at the same time. "Paper cut."

~.~.~

"Hm, I'm pretty sure that having nothing else to do than rummaging through enormous amounts of paperwork _would_ make the victors quite cranky. It would only be a matter of time before they quarrel with each other. It may not sound much, but in this stage, we have to do everything we can do to break the rebellion up, which in this case, would be defeating unity."

There was a moment's pause when the older man regarded the Head Gamemaker carefully as he slowly thought everything through.

"Ah, I see that I owe you. _Again_." Snow finally muttered, his puffy lips stretching to the sides.

Plutarch nodded slightly. "No problem sir. That's what I do."

Snow satisfyingly chuckled. "Yes, thank you. Tell Jacob—_the boy_," he added, as Plutarch rose an eyebrow. "—to get ready for the envelope reading. It's in half an hour. Dismissed."

With a polite nod, Plutarch Heavensbee started to walk out of the room.

"Wait, Heavensbee," Snow called out, and Plutarch stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around. "Yes, sir?"

"What," Snow paused, then started wheezing furiously, and Plutarch patiently waited for the old man to finish coughing on his own blood. "Did the envelope originally say? You know, before we altered it."

Plutarch looked the president straight in the eyes. With his eyes somewhat lacking the usual twinkle, he replied in an unintelligible tone, "_For this special Quarter Quell, to show that the Capitol is merciful despite the rebellion, a quarter of the tributes going in the arena will be spared instead of one_."

As the information sinks in, Snow searched Plutarch's eyes, trying to detect the source of the _off_ feeling from the plump man he'd received. Plutarch hadn't sounded neutral as always, in a voice that suggested that he was merely stating a fact. No, he could swear that there was some emotion mixed in his voice this time. _But what kind of emotion was it?_

"And," Plutarch suddenly interrupted the president's thoughts, and the old man started a bit in his chair-throne. Before he could raise a questioning eyebrow, the Head Gamemaker continued,_ "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."_

It was when Plutarch walked out of the door that Snow realized that it also was a sentence that was written on the original envelope.

* * *

**A/N: Surprise. Cinna is alive. No shit, since it's before the 75th Hunger Games, and he didn't make a Mockingjay outfit out of a wedding dress and Snow didn't really had an excuse to kill him (—**_**yet**_**). However, District 12 costumes won't be designed by him.**

**Let me know what you guys think. (That's just another way of saying **_**REVIEW PLEASE**_** less desperately.)**

* * *

**So, from the next chapter (which would be set around July, or August—**_**reaping season**_**), a Capitol Side District would be turned into a Rebel Sided one. I'll be sure to pick it from a hat.**

**From then on, the story isn't likely to skip days, even though I might write some scenes from the past if I feel like it. (I'll be sure to write them in another tense.)**

* * *

**Okay! I think I conjured up a reasonable sponsoring system! If you have a better idea, or if you think this won't work, please tell me so.**

**So, each of the tributes you've submitted earns you 10 points, even if it weren't chosen for the SYOT.**

**A tribute chart will earn you 3 points per each review. However, submitting more than one tribute chart per chapter will be ignored.**

**Pointing out the mistakes I made and giving me suggestions—any suggestions, through review or PM earns you 2 points each.**

**A review can earn you 1-3 points based on the length and quality. I may not be able to be entirely fair here—I'm not a robot—but I'll try to be.**

**And…(drumroll) I'm going to ask two questions after each chapter. (I forgot which SYOT I got this idea from, but NOT MINE.) **_**Really**_** random things that come to my mind after writing a chapter, or **_**even more**_** random things that come to me while writing the chapter lol. And answering them both will earn you 5 points. I'll probably ask questions with no real answers though, like**_** Fried eggs or boiled eggs?**_** Rather than **_**How long is the Great Wall of China?**_** But if I do ask questions with real answers, you have to get it right to earn sponsor points. You can submit your answer through review or PM, but before the next chapter is published. Yeah, I guess you can **_**answer**_**, but no sponsor points for you then. You can't answer the questions in chapter two and ask me to give you sponsor points when we're on chapter fifteen or something.**

**You can buy your favorite tributes (yes, it can be yours) items in the games, I'll write down the sponsoring item list the chapter before the actual games. Oh, and another important thing, (congratulations, you made it sound completely unimportant) you can't sponsor the Capitol Side Districts unless they've turned into a Rebel Side. But don't worry about submitting a Capitol Side District tribute, they have the plus of being safe in the arena.**

**I'll write the sponsoring system and the currently earned points on my profile.**

* * *

**Let's start.**

**Question 1: Fried eggs or boiled eggs? (**_**I'm totally fried...(?)**_**)**

**Question 2: How long is the Great Wall of China? (**_**Hahahahahahahahahahaha—okay, I'll stop.**_**)**

**Bonus Question (no points but please help me out): (**_**Okay, totally confused here.**_**) Is it a SYOT or an SYOT?**

**Real creative, I know. *insert actually proud smile* Happy SYOT reading!**


	3. 02) Pronunciations (D6 Reapings)

**Chapter Title: 02. Pronunciations (D6 Reapings)**

**Chapter Subtitle: 02. Names that are Just Hard to Pronounce for the Capitolians**

**Description: The District 6 escort ruins—just—**_**everything**_**.**

**Summary: "Did I pronounce that right, my dear?"**

**Rating: T for Tsk-Tsking escorts**

**Main Characters/Pairings: Aella M. (D6F), John B. (D6M), the Escort in Question (D6E)**

**Genre: Thriller, Horror, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst…and Comedy (because that's just me)**

* * *

**Disclaimer: I don't own THG. I don't own Finnick Odair. I don't even own the tributes here…Life sucks.**

* * *

**Have you ever seen an SYOT written in a 2nd person POV? Well, I think not. I'm determined to be the first. Mwhahahahahaha.**

**So here's what we're (**_**I'm**_**) going to do. I'm going to try out a few different POVs in the reapings (I'm only planning to do three of them. The rest of the reapings would probably be described through memories and flashbacks). It might seem a bit hectic and confusing, but after that, I'm going to ask you which POV was the best (or I'll just choose it myself).**

* * *

**To ****Guest****: Thanks for taking the time to review. I thought about it, and yeah, I'll try to tone it down, but I'm afraid I won't be able to not curse completely (that's just me). So, if you're uncomfortable with all the cursing, I recommend you not to read further. :(**

**So, I had a feeling that some of you might be feeling discomfort due to my cursing. Well, I hate to say that I can't stop myself (people often say I cuss like a sailor), though I'll try. But, if there's any of you who don't want any cursing for your character, tell me so, and _that _****I can promise.**

* * *

**To ****S.H. Reke****: Thanks for submitting! (I love John's last name!)**

**To That one ace popsicle stick: Thanks so much for your review and submission. (And seriously, is it A-Ella or AEE-la?)**

* * *

**You're the best, Amber1015! Thanks for being my superamazing beta!**

* * *

_Aella Maglev (15), D6F_

"Anthony, you know that the Games are hard enough without injuries. You've been through them yourself. So, was it necessary to select her form when we were in the Capitol?"

"I don't care, Rista, she seems like a strong one. If someone has a chance, she has."

"Don't you remember Johanna? We tried to use her as a shield for the victors because '_she seemed like the strongest_.' Now, she's broken beyond repair."

"That's irrelevant to this matter."

"No, it's not. Look at her. Strong, _really?_ She has only _one arm_, for goodness' sake!"

"So, what. Chaff has only one arm. Mellark survived with one leg. Plus, did you see her form? She's as flexible as fuck. Jumped off a roof once and landed clean."

"…"

"I tell you, that girl has a talent like none other."

"…At least, pray for her, okay?"

"You know that I always do."

~.~.~

As usual, you stand in the crowd of fifteen-year-olds, but today is somewhat different from the past three reapings. The familiar crowd of your reaping companions is nowhere to be seen, and it's just you and a handful of kids squinting at the stage, all fighting back the urge to squirm as the scorching sun runs down your spine like ants.

You shift uncomfortably from your left foot to your right, semi-consciously scratching the stump on your left arm; a habit you earned when you were young and were bitten by a bug on that spot.

The sun prickles your neck, and you stop yourself before you reach up and scratch there too. You're the center of attention (no matter where you go), no doubt. No need to make yourself even more noticeable.

You zone out and look around like you always do when the Treaty of Treason plays. You half expect to see your best friend, Tempest's face giving you a reassuring—although grim—a nod, and you're slightly taken aback by the emptiness of the area around you. About 50 or 60 so children in all, they seem to be quite uncertain what to think about the rather large area surrounded by ropes they're trapped inside. You're slightly amused by the fact that, even though there's plenty of space, you feel claustrophobic, nonetheless.

Your mind remembers the morning two peacekeepers had been standing in front of your house, holding out a rolled creamy white paper, sealed with a ribbon that was a lovely red shade.

You also remember feeling your breathing labor and your heart beat faster until you felt dizzy and thinking became a difficulty.

And you clearly remember the words written on the envelope: _Aella Maglev, age 15, District 6. You are hereby selected as a "worthy" child to be reaped in the Quarter Quell this year._

Ah, the Quarter Quell. How excited you were when you heard the president's announcement that the reaping this year wasn't going to be eligible for all, that only some 'special' (you would rather describe them as poor) children were to be dragged into the reaping grounds.

You had no idea that _you—_with only _one fucking arm_—would be chosen as one of those 'children'.

And this year, being chosen once is deadly, because, the chances that you'll be reaped, are very, very high.

You knew that you shouldn't have been doing somersaults on the roof every morning and night.

You shift a bit, and your gaze meets Tempest's—her petite form stands rather close, but too far away at the same time. Worry fogs her eyes, even though she's not surrounded by velvet ropes, waiting like gum in a vending machine, one second away from being picked out and chewed away by the Capitol.

She tries to smile and give you a thumbs up, but she swallows hard as she does, and you just know that she's not okay, and neither are you.

Your eyes briefly close as you hear the sound of the escort's ridiculously high heels on the smooth marble stage. You never bothered to memorize her name.

As the escort reaches down in the girl's bowl, your fingers cross almost by themselves. But you quickly pull them apart, because, with the number of children crossing their fingers each year on this day, you're quite sure that the luck has run out of this gesture.

And surely, fate won't be _that_ cruel for you to be reaped. Though the 5 slips of paper that have your name on it promises a fair amount of chance of being reaped, the fact that your life has always been so shitty somehow calms you down. Because, there must be a total amount of brutality you can go through a lifetime, and you defiantly have gone through your share.

You don't know if it's the July heat, or just the sickening situation that makes your head go blank as District 6's escort fishes out a piece of white, _white _paper out of the bowl.

_Please_, you beg in your head. You usually don't do begging, but let's face it, the reapings are a special occasion. _Not me._ _Please. It's not really fair for me, right? Hell, it's not fair for_ anyone, _but it's just_ not _fair for me._

"Aella Maglev!"

_Please, _you think. _Not me. Not me. Not—_

You're suddenly aware of the gasps and the murmurs of concern around you, and you freeze.

_What?_

"Aella Maglev? Uh, did I pronounce that right, my dear? Is it A-Ella, or AEE-la?"

You've never been drunk before, but you vaguely wonder if this is what it feels like to be. The strangling silence around you seems to be morphed into some sort of white buzzing noise that rings in your head. You think you hear someone scream through the sound—maybe it's your aunt—your head feels light, everything just doesn't seem to make any sense, and oh, you just seem to be drowning, drowning, _drowning_ in nothingness, but also in a million—or maybe it's just one repeated a million times—_questions_.

_After everything I've been through? After everything I've been through? After everything I've been through?_

* * *

_John Blickensdefer-Morrigan (17), D6M_

"Anthony! Really?"

"Rista, I told you that I had my reasons when I chose the tribute nominees that day."

"That boy looks like he'll be knocked over at once by the Careers."

"Come on, Rista—"

"Don't tell me to come on. First the girl, and now—_I can't_. What's he gonna do in the arena with his skill? Play the piano to shoo the mutts away or something?"

"Well, Katniss—"

"And see how that turned out for her."

"That was harsh."

"But true."

"In my defense, the boy has strong arms from playing the instrument for a long time. He'll manage."

"That's not enough, and you know it."

"Nothing's ever enough in the Hunger Games, Rista. You should know the best."

~.~.~

You watch in horror as the girl steps onto the stage looking quite emotionless—which is impressive, given by the fact that she had just fainted a few minutes ago. The escort whose name you laughed at and forgot in an instant has a flicker of pity in her eyes.

Your eyebrows rise ever so slightly. It wasn't every day you saw a Capitolian sympathizing for a tribute. Wait, you observe the escort again. Of course, it's not pity. It's closer to horror at seeing a one-armed girl. You roll your eyes, despite the dire situation you're in.

Then the escort asks the girl again for her name—_why is Aella so hard to pronounce? _—and you slowly start zoning out, imagining what would be like if your name was reaped.

You smile lightly at the thought. _If Aella's hard for her, John Blickensdefer-Morrigan would be harder than licking her damn polished elbows._

Then you quickly change your mind. _What are you thinking? Do you want to participate in the freaking Hunger Games? Clear your mind, dammit!_

Everything seems slightly slower than usual as the escort sashays across the stage, this time, to the boys' reaping bowl. Like every year, your heart suddenly seems to be pumping in an erratic manner—just to stop with the rest of your body altogether when the escort puts her expensively decorated fingernails inside the jar.

Not that you're really noticing, but seriously, you don't think her fingers even touch the paper as she fishes it out of the jar. (_Those fingernails, really!_)

You're sure everyone's looking at the piece of paper in the escort's hands as if it's a loaded gun pointed towards them. _Well, the jokes on them,_ you think grimly. _The gun's pointed nowhere but here,_ you take in the image around you in your peripheral vision—_but you don't let the paper out of your sight_—25 or so boys within the area fastened by ropes, including yourself.

The odds have never been in your favor to start with.

Just as the thought hits you, you start to panic. Now it comes to you like a tidal wave in the 70th Hunger Games that you actually _do_ have a chance of getting reaped. A very _large_ chance. The only thing that saves you from suddenly screaming out in horror is your calm demeanor—forced into place by a lifetime of playing relaxing, comforting music. But you are a _mess_ on the inside.

Six slips of paper in only a hundred or so. _OH SHIT._

Every single thought short-circuits as the escort flicks the paper open. Your legs feel very useless suddenly, and you're subconscious is resisting the urge to drop down to your knees and start hyperventilating right then and there.

You somehow just know the outcome of the boy's reaping when the escort's mouth twitches in the corners a bit, and her forehead forms a frown—_as if she's contemplating on how to pronounce a very impossible name._

_Wait,_ your mind grasps straws as you start to sweat like crazy. _I'm sure there are names harder to pronounce—_

"Okay, John," the escort calls out. "John_ Blahsdah_," a pause, where everybody's either looking at you or the escort who looks like she's trying to tie her tongue into a knot. "_Mo-blahblah_."

Your stomach lurches.

"I'm sorry," the escort looks apologetic—maybe even scared, but you're too dizzy to tell. "I'm not sure how to pronounce; _John—?"_

"Blickensdefer-Morrigan," someone whispers quietly, and you somehow figure out that it's the Aella girl who spoke up.

That's when the hell breaks loose, and you burst into tears.

* * *

_A COMMENT FROM THE CAPITOL:_

_Gotta love them tongue twisters!_

* * *

**A/N: ****T****he lucky (?) district to join the rebel side is District 10. Congratulations!**

**I hope I got Aella and John's characters correct. Also, the next reaping chapter won't show the actual reapings, but the ****morning**** of the reaping.**

* * *

**Q & A**

**Question 1: Ever heard of BTS? **_**(My sister is**_** obses****sed**_** and**__** ah, my ears are, at an alarming rate, being. Damaged**_**.)**

**Question 2: How'd you like the first reaping? If it's too boring or anything, tell me. The last thing I want to do is write a boring SYOT (That's against my freaking nature).**


	4. 03) Plans (D8 Reapings)

**Chapter Title: 03. Plans (D8 Reapings)**

**Chapter Subtitle: 03. In Which Something Happens but Nobody Really Knows What It Is**

**Description: District 8 has a queer pair and a volunteer this year. Which leaves everybody very, _very_ confused****.**

**Summary: "I volunteer. Yes, you heard me right. Now shoo, outta my way."**

**Rating: T for Twisted scenarios**

**Main Characters/Pairings: Ally W. (D8F), Will J. (D8M)**

**Genre: Horror, Friendship, Humor, and Whatever the fuck this is**

* * *

**Disclaimer: I really don't own anything. But I feel like I should. But I don't. ****WHY AM I EVEN ALIVE?**

* * *

**A/N: Okay, this chapter is going to be a bit weird. But the submitters of these tributes also gave them an interesting plot that I was willing to write about. Some of this probably won't make any sense right now, but it would be explained as the story continues. *crowd going ooh***

**Okay, so, after I wrote the 6 reapings, I found out that nobody really knew what the tributes looked like, except that Aella-whose-name-I-have-no-idea-how-to-pronounce has one arm. I really didn't want to go full clich****é**** (**_**You look at the mirror**__**—**__**and oh, how your lovely brown hair falls down to your shoulders! You're defiantly a looker. Looking like this, you'll rock this reaping.**_**) and make the tributes appreciate how they look like in the mirror before the reaping. Though I guess I _should_ mention**** their looks from now on****…**** (And I'll mention how the 6's looks like in later chapters.)**

**I have to warn you guys this beforehand: the tributes' +1 skills would be very powerful, almost absolute. So some might seem almost supernatural—okay, not _that_ much****, but still. Tell me if things get out of control, but I'd really like it if you just enjoy it.**

**And…Right. I decided to write four reapings instead of three. You shall generously deal with it.**

* * *

**3rd Person POV this time, people. Read and review.**

**Confession time: I've thought of a major twist for this story, and **_**damn**_**, ****I spent all day grinning manically at a wall thinking about it. *proud (evil) smile* Let's roll.**

* * *

**To****VibeFive****: I love both of your tributes so much, thank you, guys! Though the plot you wanted for them was very weird...It turned my mind into scrambled egg to understand what sort of complex psychology you wanted me to write. In the end, I just gave up and interpreted it in my own way. (BUT SERIOUSLY THIS PLOT IS AWESOME.)**

**To ****Elle S Goudie****: Thanks for clearing that a/an SYOT problem for me. Like, wow, your explanation was awesome. (To ****everyone else who tried to help me out as well****: A thousand kudos to you all!)**

* * *

**Here's to ****Amber1015****, for tolerating my rambling presence nonstop, and for being a kickass beta.**

* * *

_William "Will" Jackson (15), D8M_

"He looks fine. Doesn't look so hopeless, at least. I'd say he has a chance."

"I hate to say this, but I actually agree with you this time, Dean. But, he's still very young. We'll have to train him well."

"You mean _I_ will have to train him well. You haven't trained a tribute since, what, the 70th Games? Dunno, but my dear good ol' dude, the excuse that your heart is failing you is getting boring. Can't you like, have some awesome evil sick condition that makes you—I don't know—spit at Snow?"

"You…are…a _pain_."

"Lighten up, my dude. I know you've dreamt about it."

"Why don't we focus on the boy."

"Sure, whatever floats your boat. The boy…might be a good Mockingjay, too—defiantly has spunk. I'll go inform Cecelia."

"If only he could survive, you mean. You always tend to jump to conclusions."

"Yeah, yeah. That's kind of how I won my games. Cecelia's in the next room. I'm gonna go."

"It may be best if you let me do it. You might trip over your own feet trying to get to her as fast as you can."

"Ha, very funny. You keep an eye on the tribute, Woof. Just remember, I went through my own share of the Hunger Games as well."

"I'd never deny that; you sure did."

~.~.~

Will has always loved the library building.

Made of oak, painted in a rusty, ugly blue color, and heavy as hell—the signature District 8 look.

Well, District 8's buildings are mostly made from concrete these days, but not this—_his_ library. His family had been living in this building for centuries, and they had stubbornly been refusing to rebuild the ancient poor-excuse-of-a-building.

Being stubborn. One of the greatest traits of a Jackson.

The heavy door creaks open—he has to open it with his whole freaking weight—and he breathes in the rather humid air, tinted with the smell of rotting wood.

Ah, home, sweet home.

"Hey, dad." He gives a little salute to the man sitting behind the small wooden desk at the entrance and starts running down the long aisles. Will barely makes out the short man waving at him before he disappears from sight, behind the rows of bookshelves.

Living in the largest building in the district (besides the Justice Building, of course) has its perks. It's the only place he can run around without any restraint from those damn peacekeepers. When he was young, he and his brothers used to race, wrestle, and dance in this space, basking in the fact that when they grow up, they would not go work in the clothes factory like the majority of District 8. They won't come home with calloused hands from sewing and working machines. They won't have to go out on the dusty streets every day and night.

They would work in the library, with all those tedious books that they always get tired of.

Oh, how Will loves his life. (Yeah, the Hunger Games looming over him like a giant rainstorm is only just a plus. And yeah, that was sarcasm.)

His feet carry him to a section of the library almost unconsciously as if he's pulled over there by a magnetic force. It's almost out of habit, his feet slowing down to a walk, as he approaches the restricted section of the library where he _knows_ she'll be sitting, her nose in one of those dusty old books.

The restricted section is strictly forbidden to all citizens. Not even the mayor can read any of those books. His family barely has permission to even manage the section full of 'dangerous books.'

(Hence, _Twenty-One Reasons Why Panem Should Rebel, The Snow Dynasty; When Will It Finally End_ and _How to Build Up Courage to Fight Against Men in White Suits and Bloody Full Lips_, and so on.)

He's surprised to see the section empty.

His peach skin lights up a sickly color of yellow in the barely glowing light of the closed-off room.

Will waves away the awkwardly empty feeling in his stomach. _She's not here, so what?_

However, it _is_ weird. Ally never failed to show up in the restricted section every day. He frowns. Nudging the old, _old_ rug with the tip of his (also) old shoes, he starts examining the area, looking for any clues. He soon stops. Observing and reasoning was never his strong suit.

He plops down at the corner of the section and stares at a book strewn across the floor_. __Really, Ally should be subtler about reading things like this,_ he thinks, as he picks it up and puts it on a random bookshelf. Even though the girl never had any intentions on planning a revolution, or anything of the type, she loved reading in the restricted section.

"_Really_," she'd say in her dreamy voice when he'd expressed his concerns. "_I've read all the books in the library except in this section. Plus, the whole _restricted _idea makes it all so tempting_." And then she'd literally shove her nose in the book again.

He didn't get her, but what other choice did he have? She was like, the _only_ visitor in the whole district.

(Maybe his only friend too, but voicing that would be _too_ sad.)

Shoving down his hands in his orange pants—he knows being a District 8 citizen should make him at least a tad bit fashionable, but let's face it, he's a dude who has librarians for parents—he stares at the rows and rows of books.

He's really missing Ally by this point. Spending the mornings of the reapings alone is not very ideal.

He chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully and leans back on the wall.

What a wicked coincidence that he and Ally both managed to get into the 'special children' category, who would be eligible for the reapings this year. It was almost as if someone had been watching them all along—prancing around in the restricted sections and had told the Capitol on the first chance to get rid of them both.

Though it was not like they were totally talentless.

He was fast, _really_ fast. He could cover the whole library in less than a minute (three floors, plus the attic). And Ally was very…_convincing_. Maybe her 'special talent' for the games was specified as _knowledge_, but he knew that her real talent lay somewhere else (really, her knowledge was incredibly random, due to her mostly dreamy state and her supersaturated involvement of reading books). She had a very special talent. A talent that nobody but the two families knew, and could probably be really useful in the games…

He thinks about his brothers, who tried to cheer him up by making horrible jokes about being the 'special' one in the family (their eyes _were_ genuinely sad, yes, but they hid their relief _so well_, it was like, totally unnoticeable—cue the eye roll) when he slumped down on the reading couch (it made a dangerous groaning noise when he made contact with it).

The funny thing is, Will _knows_ that his brothers—one sixteen, one eighteen—are both faster than him.

He runs a hand down in his sandy brown hair, making it even more tousled, and _grins_. A mischievous little lopsided curve of the tips of his lips.

The Capitol wouldn't know what hit them if everything goes as they had planned.

~.~.~

_Ally West (14), D8F_

"…!"

"Oh, what—?"

"!"

"Wow, Woof, I've never seen you so speechless."

"Did she just—?"

"Yeah, it pretty much looks like it."

"Is she—?"

"Hm, let me see. Yes, she seems sane. Just kind of dreamy and unrealistically serene. _'I volunteer. Yes, you heard me right. Now shoo, outta my way.'_ Yes, I'd love to meet her."

"Oh, god."

"Hey, Woof, you know what? I'm gonna be her mentor in this game. No buts. This girl is awesome."

"Awesomely committed suicide, that's what you mean."

"Aw, c' mon, Woof. She can win. Maybe. No need to do the evil eye. She just needs awesome mentoring—_from me_—maybe I could enhance her skills and—"

"No—"

"Look, there's nothing you can do about this situation, dude. Plus, you said the word _awesome_. That should literally count for something, right?"

"_Dean_."

"No need to sigh. It's just another Games. We teach, we try, we drink, we have nightmares. Only that this time, we'll try to bring down the Capitol as well. Now, lighten up, and let's actually try to win this thing, mate."

~.~.~

"Remember the drill?" Her mother asks her again, and she smiles lightly, as always.

"Yeah," But her eyes are already unfocused, and her big pale green orbs are already staring into space, and her face lit up dreamily.

There are a few seconds as her mother contemplates on what to do next in the presence of her eldest child. The mother soon makes up her mind and goes downstairs to her two other children to take care of them—like she always does on a normal day.

Ally really doesn't care nowadays. There was a time when she felt like dying from her mother's negligence towards her, but now, she's got some other things to focus on.

Like restricted books, for instance (ah, the thrill of doing things you really shouldn't). Oh, yes. And the Hunger Games. But the latter really shouldn't take up a lot of her focus. She had to perform the drill, and she really didn't want to dwell the rest of her (soon to be very short) life wondering why the hell she should even execute it.

Because she was in debt, and she promised.

End of the story.

Ally's mind wonders to what she'd read about some science book she probably wasn't supposed to read. Before Panem had stood, the so-called 'scientists'—obviously the meaning of the word had changed over the century—had been obsessed with the moon and arriving there as soon as possible. She imagined what it was like years before this country had stood, in this very spot.

Her eyes suddenly open wide in realization. Shit, she'd forgotten about meeting Will in the library.

Damn, she hoped that it hadn't made a dent to their plan.

~.~.~

"We love her," Ally's mother whispers to her husband, but it sounds as if she was rather convincing herself. "We don't want anything bad happening to her. But, we have promised, and we will have to let her go."

Ally's father sighs and runs his hand in his hair. "It kills me that she would probably die thinking that we never cared about her."

They were sitting in the living room table—there weren't many customers yet—and talking about the day, _today,_ when they would have to say goodbye to their only daughter, whom they were sure she was reading a book in her room upstairs to her final day in District 8.

"But that's not true, we love her _so much_," Ally's mother says in a trembling voice, and she knows this time, that she completely means it.

"I know, but we _were_ horrible to her."

They sit there for who knows how long, nursing their teas with tears streaming down their faces.

"But we must stay strong for her…She wouldn't want us to fall into a coma or depression because of her. She's…a good kid." Ally's father finally speaks, his voice barely audible.

"A good kid, yes, completely." His spouse wipes her eyes one last time.

~.~.~

"Four pieces of bread," the customer argues hotly, holding up his old, rusty, mental watch like a weapon, rather than a piece to trade.

"Two and a half," growls Ally's father, a hint of impatience sneaking in his voice.

"Look, it's reaping season, and I want my son to have the best meal—it may be his last," the man says, his hard features softening as tears threatened to spill out of his eyes.

"Like I haven't heard that one."

"Fine," The man sighs and drops the watch on the wood counter with a final-sounding sort of a _thud_. "But I haven't got anything to bet on this year. I mean, everyone knows that the Patterson kid is going to be reaped, I've got to bet on _something_—"

"That is _enough_."

"Four," the man demands.

"ALLY!" Her father calls his daughter without further ado.

The man stares. What kind of weird bread-counting method was _ally_?

Then, a shuffle comes from upstairs, a yelp as Ally dropped the book on her toe, and there she is, standing like her mind's not in this world, swaying slightly. Her patched up originally dark blue overalls—now they're almost a whitish-blue—adds to the effect, making her seem slightly further away from the present.

She blows her hazel hair out of her eyes. "Hmm?" she asks.

Without a word, her father points to the man with the watch, who had started to stare at her.

She smiles and nods to her father, who has a proud, sad look in his eyes as he stares at his daughter, which she probably fails to catch.

"Four, you say?" she dreamily asks the man in a business sort of tone (yes, she makes it work), and starts to turn on her skills.

~.~.~

_A COMMENT FROM THE CAPITOL:_

_A girl wearing something other than a dress! On a reaping day!_

_(_Barbarian!_)_

* * *

**Q & A**

**Question 1: Do you love Fridays more than you hate Mondays? (**_**Because I most certainly don't.**_**)**

**Question 2: What kind of SYOT tribute stereotypes do you hate the most? (**_**I'd say Miss-Quiet-And-Kind-But-Is-A-Killing-Machine-In-The-Arena are the worst.**_**)**

**No points, but I'm just curious: Do you prefer short chapters and fast updates, or long chapters with slower updates? (**_**Say the quality of the chapters are the same.**_**)**


	5. 04) Potter, H (D4 Reapings)

**Chapter Title: 04. Potter, H (D4 Reapings)**

**Chapter Subtitle: 04. The Girl with Two Faces & The Boy Who Was Reaped**

**Description: Everyone's having déjà vu, but the question is; from where?**

**Summary: "So, yes. This year's tribute is—**_**Harry James Potter! **_**...Wait."**

**Rating: T for Two personalities**

**Main Characters/Pairings: Marceila B. (D6F), Echo B. (D6M)**

**Genre: Family, Friendship, Humor, and Harry Potter (alright people. I will tolerate exactly three seconds of fangirling. One, two—that's enough. Now hush, keep your squeals to a minimum.)**

* * *

**Disclaimer: There once was a girl who said she owned THG. The next day, she claimed that she owned HP also. The day after that, she got zapped by lightning and became a pile of smoking ash. (Witnesses swears that they had heard a certain girl with a huntress' kit and punk-style clothes scolding the sky, which she addressed 'her father', the next day.)**

* * *

**A/N: First of all, I wanted to make huge references to HP while not making this a crossover—thought it would be fun, and the D4 pair was the best way to do this, fight me.**

**I live off of reviews. Kindly help me maintain my life.**

* * *

**To****Tiger outsider****: Thank you for not one, but three amazing tributes. I must say, Marceila's my favorite out of the three. I hope you like how I wrote her.**

**To ****Professor R J Lupin****: I apologize in advance—this is probably not what you had in mind when you filled out the description form lol. Anyway, thanks for submitting a goofy character. I'll do my best goofy writing as possible. If there's such a thing.**

**To ****VibeFive**** (yes u wonderful fuckers I'm still calling u that): Thank you (especially leo) for checking up on my profile and giving me the most inspirational, vehement pep talk ever to push me into writing another chapter. You guys are awesome.**

* * *

**Thanks as always, ****Amber1015****, who always checks up on me, betas my works, and motivates me to write! (You're the fucking best I love you so much!)**

* * *

_Marceila Bellum (18), D4F_

"I'm going to make this very short, clear, and literal: she's crazy."

"One of us will have to mentor her, and it will not be me."

"Count me out too."

"I, Aqua Lillias, am past victor of the Hunger Games—I killed nine people, fought mutts craving my blood, and am currently taking part in the most dangerous rebellion in history. But this tribute—this _one girl_, certainly exceeds my limits."

"…Hey, I just won my games. I'm new here. I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming at the top of my lungs."

"Welcome to the family, dear. Don't worry, all you have to do is wait for just over an eternity and it will disappear. Unless you decide to take the Abernathy Route, that is."

"What the hell is the Abernathy—never mind. Maybe Annie can help her out? I mean, maybe she could understand her since…you know what I mean."

"Sure. Maybe…. Oh, _god_. I'm too old for this."

"We're to blame. We were the ones who approved of her forms in the first place."

"Vortex. The forms did not inform us about her double personality."

"Okay, okay. Now, uh…why don't we try to be, um, positive, right now. Like, maybe she could be our new Mockingjay!"

"No."

"I agree. That was a bad attempt. Or maybe…."

"Yes…?"

"I've got nothing."

~.~.~

In a velvet chair in a huge white building in the middle of District Four, sits a young lady with blinding platinum blonde hair, hands cuffed tightly together. Her eyes are steady and determined, and her brilliant smile is unwavering.

One look at her, and you'll be wondering why the hell this poised and amiable-looking girl is strapped unnecessarily tightly to the seat—despite her slim, short form—with two heavily armed peacekeepers looming behind her.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Marceila Bellum's gaze traces over at the giant clock fastened to the wall she's facing. Thirty minutes are left before she's off on a train to the Capitol, and there are still no visitors.

She frowns unhappily.

Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she glances at the bronze door of the room holding her custody. It doesn't open, doesn't reveal her family running over to her with proud tears and saying goodbye to her. Marceila sighs.

"My nose itches," she says quite sweetly to the peacekeeper on her right, twisting her neck at an unnatural, painful-looking angle to try and hold eye contact with the man behind the white Star Wars mask. Her look is pointed.

Silence. A minute passes with Marceila smiling and the peacekeeper staring.

Marceila sighs and turns back as if she had been expecting it.

A few minutes pass by uneventfully. Marceila hums an old tune softly. The peacekeepers shift uncomfortably behind her.

"Have a seat," The eighteen-year-old finally declares in a sincere voice. "You look rather stiff. People would think that _you_ are the ones getting ready for their Games."

Her calm, blue eyes shine with genuine worry, and the peacekeepers instantly tense, holding the gun on their belts tightly. They won't shoot, or cause her any real harm, but they _would_ knock her out.

Marceila frowns, and stretching her body as well as she can while tied up, sighs deeply once again.

And just like a switch is flipped, without any signs of warning; Merceila is gone, and her other personality takes her place.

"You know what I'm going to do once I'm in the games?" Asks a cool voice with the girl's mouth—nothing like the calm, kind tone she'd been using until now. The voice is evil, harsh.

One peacekeeper barely hides a shiver. The other fails in concealing it.

"I had so long to think about it…Eighteen years of chasing blood…. How fun," Marceila sneers, an unnatural twist of lips on her suddenly wicked-looking features. "I'm going to hunt down the most innocent, young, weak. Peeling their skin off layer by layer, listening to their screams—music to my ears." The young woman suddenly jerks back her head to the white-clothed man behind her, and the one on the left flinches slightly, gripping his gun even tighter.

Marceila looks like she's imagining all the blood and gore, the desperate sounds of terror. And she's savouring it like honey.

"Fuck yeah," she purrs, licking her full lips slowly, as if she's a cat settling in to torture a mouse until its heart gives out from pure terror. Her eyes glisten a terrible oceanic blue—it holds a _storm_—as she focuses on one of the peacekeepers, gazing meaningfully into the black glass helmet, forcing eye contact. "Don't worry, you won't miss anything. I'm sure the cameras would love to get all that shit on the main screen."

Smiling widely, baring all of her perfect teeth—rather looking like fangs at the moment—Marceila blinks.

And it's the first Marceila again. "I know it's your job to be silent and broody and everything, but seriously, I want your opinion on this. Do you think it's a first for a volunteer District 4 tribute to have no visitors?"

Two peacekeepers shiver in perfect synchronization.

~.~.~

_Echo Brookes (17), D4M_

"Why do I think that I vaguely recognize him?"

"Yeah, Aqua, he's a Harry Potter lookalike. A stunt-double for Daniel Radcliffe in the movies."

"Oh! _That's why_! Wait. What?"

"Hmm? What are you talking about?"

"Wh—? You just said the boy looks like someone. Someone whose name I'm sure I've heard before…"

"Huh? What are you talking about? I didn't say anything."

"Right. Okay, fine, stop giving me that look. Anyway, what do you think of the boy?"

"He looks familiar."

"Yeah…"

"Oh!"

"What?"

"Don't you think it would be nice if Finnick trained this one? I mean, he is certainly a trident master."

"Vortex, I know you are new to this whole mentoring/post-Games/rebellion thing. So, I will make this very clear for once and for all. Finnick is _busy_."

"Busy doing what? Ah,_ ohh._"

"See, you've gotten it. You're learning, boy! Let us see if you landed on the correct conclusion. Finnick is busy—"

"Planning and executing the rebellion!"

"_No_, Vortex dear. And here I was thinking that you were getting wiser. Finnick is busy eating sugar cubes and playing poker with Johanna."

"…You're not joking."

"Do I seem to be the joking type, Vortex?"

"…No, ma'am."

~.~.~

Like most things, it seems to be an accident when these three things happen at the same time.

One, Muffin Lollipop—the newbie escort of District Four—who had been dramatically, slowly revealing the boy tribute's name on the paper with her long fingernails, makes this weird, conflicted face. As if she doesn't know whether to be annoyed or exhilarated, which makes an interesting expression. She fumbles with the paper in her distraction and it flutters to the ground soundlessly after a slip of the fingers.

Two, Finnick Odair, graciously late as ever, bounces up the stage steps with a wide grin flashing over his face. He's waving and bowing at the cheering crowd beneath him, dressed in a white sweater and blue jeans. He's also probably the reason of Muffin's sudden lost of focus. Echo freezes for a moment—blinks—because he swears the trident master himself had just looked directly at him and winked, before fishing a fistful of sugar cubes out of his pocket and grandly throwing them to the crowd witnessing the reaping.

Three, the girl who volunteered prior—the slim one with the sharp cheekbones—blinks. When her eyes reopen, they represent a tsunami of glacial blue and the icy aura of a newly sharpened sword.

Of course, no one but Echo seems to notice the third event occurring. They're either too busy staring slack-jawed at the fallen paper, not daring to breathe, or frantically scrambling over one another to get hold of one of Finnick's infamous sugar cubes. Even the cameras and the commentary are focused on nothing but District Four's Golden Victor.

Then, like most happenings, the events became into a big, chaotic mess of consequences, very quickly.

The girl—Maurecia? Maria? Pounces on poor Muffin, her sharp fingernails raking through the escort's very obvious hair extensions and making her scream at such a pitch that everyone in the vicinity screws their eyes shut and try not to black out from the sheer decibel level.

The peacekeepers are surging forward, caught off guard, and quickly rush to contain the female tribute, who is now screaming, "_THE WEAK MUST DIE_!" in a voice that makes blood turn to ice that Echo has trouble deciding whose voice is worse, the girl or Muffin.

Finnick, frowning, takes a step backward, which isn't a good idea considering he in in the middle of ascending the stairs and the crowd beneath takes a collective gasp as he flails, trying to catch his balance.

Luckily, he manages, and at the same time the girl tribute is separated from the escort (_"—MUST PERISH, WEAKLINGS—"_) and taken away to the Justice Building by peacekeepers. Muffin, miffed, regains her posture, wiping frightened tears and melted mascara from her eyes, and frantically trying to fix her hair while she fretfully looks around for the fallen piece of paper.

The victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, Vortex, finally takes pity on her and swoops in, presenting her with half the torn piece of paper. Muffin gives him a teary, grateful smile, and coughs a few times in her gloved fist, clearing her throat.

"So, yes, anyway, this year's boy tribute from District Four is—" she pauses for dramatic effect. "_Harry James Potter_!"

The citizens of District Four blink, trying to make sense of this whole series of unfortunate events.

"Wow," a girl next to Echo whispers in a deadpan. "Sweet, sweet, _sweet_ fuck."

"…Wait," Muffin squints. "Oh, sorry, my bad." She looks around. "Echo Brookes? Will you come up here please?"

~.~.~

Like most people, it seems to be perfectly normal that Echo Brookes was going through the day's events over and over inside his round head nonstop.

"To be fair," his sister Coral, consoles him. "You do kind of look like him. You know…green eyes, jet-black hair, round face, tall, lanky. The whole package."

"How, Coral, is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"…Because J. K. Rowling makes eight dollars every passing second?"

"Okay," Lake cuts in. "What Coral is saying here is—we're going to miss you so much when you're gone—and we'll be waiting right here when you come home."

_When_—not _if_. Despite the constant weight in his stomach, Echo manages to smile waveringly at his girlfriend. "Love you, Lake. And you too, Coral."

They both nod, and clasp his hands, as if trying to transmit whatever they want to say to him but can't express with words. "I'm sorry if I'm not making much sense, Echo. I just…feel so jumpy on your behalf, alright?" Coral stutters, tears forming in her eyes. She blinks them back forcefully, trying to stay strong for her only family.

Echo still remembers the shock that overcame him when he was practically dragged up to the stage by three peacekeepers, which, in normal circumstances, would have been considered excessive, but given by the current events, completely understandable.

"I'll be fine, okay? I love you," he says, giving them both one last kiss on the cheek.

Then it's time to leave.

~.~.~

_A COMMENT FROM THE CAPITOL:_

_CAN'T WAIT FOR THIS YEAR'S MERCH!_

_(ARE THEY SELLING TOY WANDS TOO?!)_

* * *

**A/N: Short chapters, fast updates. Okay, okay. I can do that.**

**(Probably.**

**Probably not.)**

* * *

**Q & A**

**Question 1: Harry Potter or The Hunger Games? (**_**I honestly can't choose, this is like having to choose between my feet and the Internet.**_**)**

**Question 2: How are you guys doing with the pandemic and all? Hope you're all safe. :(**


End file.
